


Bakery-Related Joke

by Alina_writes



Category: Leagues and Legends - E. Jade Lomax
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Friendship, Gen, Humor, I just need them to be safe and having a good time, Inspired By Tumblr, Minor Injuries, everyone is happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:39:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6331369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alina_writes/pseuds/Alina_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey,” Liam called out, “hey, fellows, wanna hear a bakery-related joke?”<br/>Jack looked elated, George put down her tankard in alarm, and Bea announced, “Jones, if you make these poor souls spill their drinks again, you’re cleaning up the mess yourself.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bakery-Related Joke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirgewithoutmusic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirgewithoutmusic/gifts).



    Over a table occupied by maps, golden pastries and tankards of drinks, Bea looked at her lieutenants, her co-conspirators; her trio of mage-smugglers.  
    The operation tonight had been as successful as it could be: all three mages were escorted out of the mountains, shaken, dazed, but unharmed. Jack had a sprained left ankle and a bruised lip, which didn’t seem to hinder his enthusiasm in devouring the heap of rolls laid out in front of him, nor did they affect his recapping the battle with his mouth still full. George was taking measured sips of her mead, supplementing and, more often than not, correcting Jack’s rambling description with her precise analysis. She was holding her tankard in both hands like a battle-worn squirrel holding its hard-won walnut; her right upper arm had a stitched up and bandaged gash in it. Both of Liam’s eyebrows and the front part of his hair were singed, and any movement involving the maneuvering of his back made him wince, but he leaned into the conversation anyway, laughing at George’s effort to get Jack to stop giving the Seeress’ goons silly names, his feet tapping improvised tunes under the table.  
    They were riding on the last wave of adrenaline, bruised and battered, and tomorrow morning they would wake up grumbling about injuries overlooked last night, and there would be new battles to be fought, injuries to obtain, but for now, Bea stuck a pin into her map, picked up another scone, and let the chatter fill up the bakery.  
    By the time Jack was done retelling their heroic feats, Liam was toying a muffin with his long, dark fingers, a poorly hidden grin pulling at his lips.  
    Bea had seen that grin too many times to expect anything other than drama.  
    “Hey,” Liam called out, “hey, fellows, wanna hear a bakery-related joke?”  
    Jack looked elated, George put down her tankard in alarm, and Bea announced, “Jones, if you make these poor souls spill their drinks again, you’re cleaning up the mess yourself.”  
    “As you command, ma’am,” Liam saluted her, straightening himself into his best punch-line-delivering pose, wincing. Jack relaxed into his best listener’s sprawl.  
    George and Bea braced themselves.  
    “Two muffins,” Liam says, “are being baked in the oven. After some fifteen minutes, one of the muffins turns to the other and says, ‘Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me?’ To which the other muffin replies, ‘Holy crap, a talking muffin!’”  
    Absolute silence greeted the Worldsinger’s words.  
    Bea began to say, “Now, that wasn’t even-“when a fit of hysterical giggles broke out.  
    Jack was slipping halfway out of his chair, shaking so hard with laughter that tears streamed down his face. He tried to haul himself upright by grabbing the table, but his hand landed on his tankard instead, and he went tumbling out of his chair, bringing his tankard with him. Bea cringed at the sound of Jack’s head colliding with his chair, and sighed when she heard his mead splash all over him.  
    George, who had made the mistake of resuming drinking when the joke ended, was now coughing and spluttering, wordlessly jabbing an accusing finger at the redhead on the floor. Said redhead, despite receiving something much more than a boop on the noggin and drenched in mead, was still cackling like he had given up on life.  
    Bea the Baker looked at the choking Dragon Slayer, at the convulsing Giantkiller, and smacked the Pied Piper in the back of his head with a rag.  
    “You spilled it; you clean it.” She told the man, who grinned, wide and smug.

**Author's Note:**

> I spent a few minutes listening to this Bea playlist; http://ink-splotch.tumblr.com/post/141443215877/songs-for-bea-the-baker#notes and my feels were destroyed, obliterated, burned and sent into space in a rocket ship, which then got hit with a comet. I just really need these four cinnamon rolls to be happy and safe and have fun, so here we are.  
> The premise of the story was inspired by this post on tumblr: http://botanycrewmember.tumblr.com/post/141490054153/when-i-get-overwhelmed-by-bea-feels  
> OP didn't specify which joke, so I took artistic liberties.


End file.
